how about a wednesday poem thread?

[ulysses]

Meeting my oncologist for lunch

You look at me once
over the minestrone and
I'm eleven again.

Let your voice drop
the way it did
in the quiet room
when you explained
about the shade
in the x-rays and
it is there again
beneath my seventh rib.

Damned if I didn't grow up!
It's been sixteen years
since we spoke
and it shows
in your hearing aid,
the magician who makes things
disappear beneath dressing gowns,
the alchemist who could conjure
time when there was no time
is hard of hearing.
You tell me about the son
who's my age, we talk about
disease.
I want to ask you for a language
to talk about this, I want
to tell you that I believe

in cancer, in the bloody being
of the tumor, and in radiation.
That I believe in the diagnosis,
in adriamycin, prednisone,
vincristine, The Trinity,
the survivor who suffered,
the resurrection of the body and
the life everlasting, amen.

But I don't, and neither do you.
We argue over the check, and you win
again. Did I ever thank you? So.


*********

Ok, your turn. :)

[WeRQ4U]

1. A haiku I wrote a couple weeks ago.

Stolen Election
Nazis on capital hill
Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck

[kick-ass-bob]

2. Here's a haiku

Man dies playing games.
We must post incessantly.
Here on the D-U.


:rofl:

[trackfan]

3. Your Hair

Once in a while when I think how boring it is in my dreary
office, I look in my drawer. Something reminds me of you.
Copper colored hair, wound up in a tight little ball. A
part of you in my desk. Happier thoughts fill my mind.

[Wetzelbill]

4. Charles Bukowski - Big Night On The Town

drunk on the dark streets of some city,
it's night, you're lost, where's your
room?
you enter a bar to find yourself,
order scotch and water.
damned bar's sloppy wet, it soaks
part of one of your shirt
sleeves.
It's a clip joint-the scotch is weak.
you order a bottle of beer.
Madame Death walks up to you
wearing a dress.
she sits down, you buy her a
beer, she stinks of swamps, presses
a leg against you.
the bar tender sneers.
you've got him worried, he doesn't
know if you're a cop, a killer, a
madman or an
Idiot.
you ask for a vodka.
you pour the vodka into the top of
the beer bottle.
It's one a.m. In a dead cow world.
you ask her how much for head,
drink everything down, it tastes
like machine oil.

you leave Madame Death there,
you leave the sneering bartender
there.

you have remembered where
your room is.
the room with the full bottle of
wine on the dresser.
the room with the dance of the
roaches.
Perfection in the Star Turd
where love died
laughing.

[trackfan]

5. Rhyming haiku. What's

it to you if it does so?
Just let it go, Joe.

[Wetzelbill]

6. Bitter Words - A Wetzelbill Joint

BITTER WORDS

There she was, only twenty, a little lady
with chestnut hair, sauntering past my eyes
and a row of desks, a big, black belt around
her hips, the briefest glance jolts my lightning
crashing; the monsoon drizzles her bitter words

A Navajo poet - or what I imagined was one-
once called her “the petite girl who always wore
the white dress,” a static, thunder-filled dress by
its own merit, but I sing Blackfeet warrior songs
in my urban, desert shower about that cinched belt

Those torrential words! Swarming ubiquitous while
I empathize her life, leafing through courage, finding
similarities which may join us at those hips, drunk on
minute memories we salvage together, intoxicated by
alcohol I will never taste, storming electrical sobriety

A German Pikuni, and an American Jew, I may love
her for that reason alone; So what would Hitler, White
Calf, TR and Ariel Sharon think? Surely,“ why the hell
not?” If only she’d be foolish enough to fall in love with
a man who would give her an oppressed drunk of a child

Then the desert blooms like Browning, Montana,
festive, ripe as Indian Days in summer time, Yet
I’m squalled over by bittersweet rain; longing to be
gripped like her belt. That I could definitely handle!
I would capture those words to a reservation home

We could ride around in my ugly green reservation car
except that the mechanic sold it, because I never paid to
get it from his shop, How embarrassing for her; a raging
tempest speechless! Blushing from white trash indigenous
shame. But, she is accustomed to disappointment anyway

Still, she is endearing: feminist yet fragile, opinionated and
reticent, her words contrasting strength and vulnerability;
this is when she is at her sexy, enthralling best, making me
forget I swore off of white girls, since my friend married
one for a month that did not last until death tore them apart

“You’re too much,” she says. This bad boy who is not one;
her brilliant, acrid words scorching smooth like Thunderbird
Now, I’ll leave where there are no monsoons, tightly cinched
black belts, and the big powwow is over, I’m finished. Bitter.
Raining. Remembering the days I made her bitter words laugh

[trackfan]

7. The Outage

The internet is out, and so it seems
the office is without a saving grace.
The time that I would spend in fertile surfing
now goes to waste. I wonder what we did
in those dark days before we were on line.
I used to work with many crews of guys
who filled the idle time with playing craps,
or pitching coins when bosses were away.

[trackfan]

9. Melissa

With George, the other day, I had a drink -
and ran into a girl, Melissa Klein.
Her smile was bright, not like when here at work
she sat there in her office with a scowl.
The alcohol had livened up her spirits
and made her look so good I couldn't help
myself from giving her a kiss. She said
she'd have some news to give me when the time came.

[Wetzelbill]

10. hey that's pretty cool

[UrbScotty]

8. Bush is such a wimp.

He's afraid of a woman
Whose son he let die.

[trackfan]

11. Shirking

"To sit all day and always be prepared
for any boss or dark authority
to suddenly appear around the corner
and break the spell of blissful privacy
I've worked so hard to build up in this cube",
describes my work day aptly, I dare say.
The constant apprehension sometimes makes
it almost worth my while - though still not quite -
to do some work instead of goofing off.